


A Civic Duty, Performed with the Utmost Gravitas

by zeitgeistic (faire_weather)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Companionable Snark, Father Christmas - Freeform, M/M, Santa Claus - Freeform, Secret Societies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 13:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16703437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faire_weather/pseuds/zeitgeistic
Summary: Draco is unamused to discover that his inheritance includes more than money and estates. Potter doesn't make it any easier to bear.





	A Civic Duty, Performed with the Utmost Gravitas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darkravenwrote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkravenwrote/gifts).



“Draco,” says Father, looking put upon. “It’s time you take up the mantle of the Malfoy name.”

Draco, who had been expecting this six months ago when his father was tried, convicted, and given a very generously reduced sentence of ten years house arrest, looks up from his paper. There’s yet another op-ed on the hermit-like Golden Boy, and Draco is sick to his back teeth with it. He’d happily let the  _ Daily Prophet  _ feature  _ him _ if it would make his appeal for a spot in the Auror program any more likely to succeed.

“Oh? Finally mustered up the courage to let me see the finance books?”

“No,” says Father. “I will continue stewarding our estate for now.” He takes a sip of his coffee—black—and gives Mother a significant look. “With your Mother’s and my...unavailability…there is another task which only you can perform.”

Draco does not like the sound of this. It’ll likely involve him attending a social event and even his unshakable self-confidence isn’t quite ready for that yet. Charities only like Malfoy money when it doesn’t come with Malfoys attached, he’s found since the end of the war.

Draco sets his paper down, foldes it neatly in front of him. An old photo of Potter scowls up at him, but Draco knows it will scowl at anyone. He’s not getting special treatment. “What is it?”

“You are aware of the many secret societies of which our family are members, but there is one that I’m afraid we’ve been unable to share with you until now. The International Assembly of Father Christmases, Saint Nicholases, and Santa Clauses are an esteemed body of—”

Draco slowly sets the paper down on the breakfast table. “Sorry, what?”

“The IAFCSNSC,” says Father, his exasperation clear. He gives Draco a hard look over his reading glasses. “Draco, do attend to this with the gravity it requires. For over five-hundred years, the Malfoy family has been responsible for conducting the business of Father Christmas every December, for magical children in England, Wales, and Scotland. The Irish have their own program, no doubt a socialist one.”

A small part of Draco’s brain—the part not currently overloading from the absolute insane few sentences his father just uttered—wonders in what universe Father Christmas would in fact, not be socialist, and how long his father has been living there.

“...Okay.”

“It is a role our family has conducted with all the grace, dignity, and expense it deserves. I have been Father Christmas for the past 34 years, save three when your mother had to help due to unforeseen circumstances—” (the war, Draco notes, dryly) “—Now the honor falls to you.”

“Because you can’t leave the house.”

Father frowns.

“Anyway,” Mother says, as brightly as a fairy light. She reaches across the breakfast table to hand him a wooden box shaped like a Yule log with twelve different Unspeakable-level wards around it. “Here are your accoutrements. You’ll want to get an early start on your list.”

“Is there actually a naughty list?” Draco asks, remembering the paltry Christmas showing he’d had when he was seven. 

His parents share a look. “Everything you need to know is in the box.”

***

Draco opens the box. He pulls out the ‘accoutrements’. He reads the handbook. 

He despairs.

“Draco, you twat,” he says to himself, in the deepest pits of misery one could possibly fall into. “You should’ve joined Potter when you had the chance.”

Then he wouldn’t be disinvited to every social event in Britain, have to pay reparations to the Weasleys for an act his father committed Draco’s second year, or be Father Christmas. He would have the social and political clout to end Father Christmas entirely, forever.

Is he really going to have to create and deliver a present to every Weasley child for the rest of his life, or until he becomes infirm enough he can pass off this nightmare to his own heir? Draco makes a note to look into surrogacy at the earliest possible moment.

The next evening, he joins his parents after dinner and says, “This is rubbish. Do you know how many magical children there are in Britain? How am I supposed to find out what they want, make it, and deliver it to each of them? It’s already mid-November!”

“Our family’s standing in the IAFCSNSC depends on a successful Yuletide season, Draco,” says Father, as he sips from a glass of reserve brandy. “If I can’t leave the Manor, then I can’t deliver gifts to all the pure-blooded children. And you remember what Christmas morning was like, Draco. How can you deny that to these pure-blood children?”

Mother frowns. “Dear, I really would caution you against qualifying the pedigree of children we are to deliver gifts to. If your probation officer heard…”

Father grimaces. “Yes, of course. You’re right as always, my love.”

Draco sighs. “Muggleborns get gifts, too. I read the handbook.”

Lucius swirls his glass. “Do they? Dear me. I’ve gone about it wrong my entire tenure.”

_ Merlin _ , Draco thinks.  _ What a shitshow. _ “Can we quit our membership? I’m sure the Abbotts would love to take it up—they’re always vying for new ways to one-up every other charity donation we give.”

“Absolutely not! This is a  _ sacred obligation _ , Draco. It is our  _ civic duty _ .”

Draco knows the real reason is Father doesn’t want to give Hank Abbott the pleasure. And that’s how Draco will be saddled with this farcical obligation for the next hundred years.

***

Draco checks his nice list. He gets about three-quarters down and checks it twice, because he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

_ Potter, Harry J _

“The fuck is this?” says Draco. The only other lifeform in his bedroom—his owl, Rudolpho—says,  _ ‘Who?’ _

“This can’t be right. My nice list has  _ Potter _ on it. He’s of age, for Merlin’s sake.”

And what’s worse, the ‘asked for’ column next to his name is empty, so Draco is going to have to actually  _ go and find out _ what Potter wants for Christmas because if he misses a ‘child’ on his list, he’ll get a citation from the IAFCSNSC, which Father assures Draco daily, is Very Important.

Draco looks at his owl. Rudolpho shrugs his wings up, useless as ever. “I should serve you for Christmas dinner,” Draco mutters, before snatching up his cloak and heading for the Manor’s Apparition Chamber.

***

Draco pops into existence on the doorstep of a truly dire terraced house. The paint is peeling, the windows are thick with grime, the garden is dead, and to make matters worse, it’s wedged between two Muggle houses. He grimaces as he presses the doorbell, for his finger comes away with a sticky residue not unlike salamander blood.

It takes an impolitely long time for the front door to open, and when it does, Draco comes face to face with Potter for the first time since his trial in June. Potter’s eyes widen, but Draco doesn’t know why the sight of  _ Draco _ should be such a surprise when Potter’s the one wearing ratty grey joggers and looking like he hasn’t showered all week. 

He looks fit in the joggers, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Hello, Potter.”

There is an extended pause. 

“How the fuck did you get here?”

“I Apparated…” Draco says, wondering if Potter truly has lost his mind, as Rita Skeeter would have everyone believe.

Potter shakes his head. “No, how did you  _ get here _ ? How did you find my house, Malfoy? It’s under  _ Fidelis  _ and I’m the Secret Keeper.”

Draco’s smirk comes slowly, but satisfyingly. “Is that so?” 

He makes a show of looking around, taking note of the neighbourhood and house in case Potter chooses to reset the spell. 

“Stop trying to memorise my house, Malfoy,” says Potter, amused. “You won’t remember it if I redo the spell.”

Draco did not know this, but he won’t let Potter have the satisfaction. “Just enjoying the view. May I come in?”

Potter just looks at him.

Draco smiles politely. As much as he would like to tell Potter to go fuck himself with a lime-flavoured candy cane—the worst flavour—he  _ needs _ to know what Potter wants for Christmas. 

“How did you find my house, Malfoy?” Potter repeats.

Draco huffs, and crosses his arms over his chest. There is really only so much Potter he can stand. Of course it could never be easy for Draco. Nothing ever is. “It’s on my list. Special Christmas magic. Now let me in!”

“Why?”

Draco sighs. “I need to know what you want for Christmas.”

Potter’s eyes narrow. “Sorry, what?”

“Did no one teach you manners, Potter? It’s fucking cold out here. Invite me in and give me tea, you utter twat!”

Potter blinks several times, then shuffles back from the door, his joggers stretching across his fit thighs in an indecent fashion. Draco forces a smile and steps inside. The interior is not much better than the exterior. In fact, it’s grim. The front hall is missing half a wall. It looks as if someone has taken a sledgehammer to the top half and not bothered to replaster it. Beyond the hole, there is a cosy library, from which Celestina Warbeck’s most recent Christmas album is emanating. 

Draco gives Potter a concerned look—perhaps Draco should rethink his application to the Aurors if this is what they do to their own homes—but Potter pointedly ignores him, and brushes past to lead Draco into the house. They end up in the cosy library, for which Draco is grateful, as the rest of the house is completely uninhabitable. 

Potter gestures him to a chair. Draco sits, though not without first checking for doxies.

“So,” Potter says, following suit. “You were going to tell me how you found my house.”

Draco narrows his eyes. The absolute  _ nerve _ of this man. “Tea.”

“Fine. Kreacher!” 

A truly archaic house-elf appears. He eyes Draco curiously, but Potter takes his attention before Draco can figure out how he knows the elf. “Would you bring tea, please? And some biscuits or whatever we’ve got.”

Draco and Potter stare at one another in the kind of inelegant silence one defaults to in terrible company while they wait. A moment later, the house-elf returns and deposits a tea tray on the table between them. 

Potter, the absolute wanker, doesn’t make a move.

Draco gestures for Potter to pour. “Just milk, please.”

Potter rolls his eyes, but complies. Once Draco has his tea and a broken ginger nut, he clears his throat and pulls his nice list from his pocket. “Now, I’m not supposed to tell this to anyone, so I’ll require your confidentiality.” 

He passes the list over. Potter scans it, eyebrows furrowed behind his glasses. “What’s this?”

Draco digs his fingernails into his palm. Surely someone so fit could not truly be this daft? “It’s a Christmas list.”

Potter’s brows furrow further. “Why am I on here?”

“My question exactly. The nice list is strictly for children under the age of seventeen.”

“I’m eighteen.”

“Well spotted, Potter.” Draco discards his tea on the tray—it’s over-brewed—and leans forward. “So why  _ are you _ on my list?”

Potter looks up. “Your list? What are you, Father Christmas?”

Draco frowns. “Yes.”

Potter snorts. “No really, Malfoy. What’s going on?”

Draco gives up all Christmas hope: Potter really doesn’t have any comprehension skills.

“I’ve got to deliver a present to you on the night of Christmas Eve, and if I don’t I’ll get a citation from the International Assembly of Father Christmases, Saint Nicholases, and Santa Clauses. So please, if you would be so kind as to  _ tell me what you want _ so I can acquire or create it, I would be ever so grateful.”

Potter stares for a moment, then breaks out into laughter. “Are you serious?”

Draco narrows his eyes and mentally counts all the ways he could shut Potter up. He refuses to consider why  _ kissing him _ is one of his options. “Very.”

Potter laughs harder. “Is this what the Ministry’s got you doing for your probation? Making you be—oh my god, I can’t even—making you be Father Christmas? This is too much!” he continues cackling.

“How dare you?” says Draco, aghast. “This is a  _ sacred obligation. _ It is my  _ civic duty _ to perform this task with gravitas and sincerity!”

Potter abruptly stops laughing. “You’re serious.”

_ “Yes, Potter!” _ Draco says, letting out an explosive sigh.

Potter blinks. His mouth opens, but the words hesitate on his lips. Finally, slowly, he says, “But Father Christmas isn’t  _ real _ , Malfoy.”

Draco has never heard anything more offensive in his entire life. “My god, Potter. What kind of idiot Muggles raised you? Of course Father Christmas is real! It’s an  _ office _ , not a specific  _ person _ , and now that my father is no longer able to perform the duties, I have inherited the role. Would you  _ please _ tell me what you want for Christmas so I can update my list and be on my merry way?”

“You mean if I tell you what I want, you have to get it for me?”

Draco narrows his eyes. “Please don’t make my life harder than it already is. I already have to figure out how to give twenty children little brothers or sisters, and working around the legal issues involved therein has given me a migraine all week.”

Potter is thoughtful for a moment. He actually taps his chin with a finger. Draco can’t help but notice that it’s a rather nice finger—smooth skin and clean nails, which Draco has to admit is unexpected. 

“Hmm. I don’t know. I’ve never asked Father Christmas for anything before,” says Potter, and Draco barely refrains from giving life to his confused exasperation. Was Potter that much of an idiot child that he didn’t know he could ask Father Christmas for presents? No wonder he’s on the list now. Draco doesn’t have time for this. 

Then, Potter’s eyes gleam and he says, “Can you get me a date?”

Draco knew this would happen. 

No good deed ever goes unpunished.

He grits his teeth. “If you ask for it, then I am obligated to provide it.”

Potter’s gleamy eyes gleam more. “Then that’s what I want. Do I need to send it to you in a letter?  _ Dear Father Christmas, I’ve been a very good boy this year. I’d like a date with— _ ”

“A date with death,” Draco mutters.

“Someone handsome,” Potter corrects, thinking it over. “Tall, but not too tall. I don’t like being shorter  _ or _ taller. Exactly the same height. Nice arse. Good jawline—no weak chins, please. And healthy, too. The last person Hermione set me up with blushed so much I was afraid he was feverish with consumption. Oh, and he has to be funny.”

Draco, obligated yet fuming, makes a note of all of this. “Anything else?”

“Bonus points if he can bake better ginger nuts than my house-elf and knows any good spells for getting unknown stains out of Auror robes. I get all sorts—blood, sweat, tears, grass—can’t get them out for the life of me.”

“That’s a simple  _ Delicate Dry-cleaning Spell _ , Potter. I can teach it to you. You won’t even need a date for it.”

“Oh, but I want a date,” says Potter. He pauses. “Can you bake?”

“Can’t every potioneer?” Draco counters. “It isn’t hard.”

“Is that the secret, then?” asks Potter. “I can cook, but I’ve found it doesn’t translate to brewing.”

“That’s because cooking is imprecise, while both potions and baking are not, fuckwit.”

Potter laughs. “Have you always been funny?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Yes, obviously. You just never paid attention. Now is there anything else for your wish?”

Potter’s eyes rake down Draco’s body. “Nope. I’m paying attention now.”

Draco can’t help the little shudder of titillation he feels at that. No one’s looked him over like that since Cedric Diggory interrupted him in the Prefects’ Bath. Draco’s cheeks heat and he forces himself to look back down at his list, where he’s noted everything Potter requested. How the hell is he going to find someone who fits Potter’s ridiculous standards  _ and _ get them to agree to a date with someone as obnoxious as Potter within the next three weeks?

Draco clears his throat and stands. “Well, I think I have what I need here. Expect your gift to arrive on Christmas Eve—don’t bother waiting up. I know when you’re sleeping.”

Potter stands, too. He steps around the table, gathering himself into Draco’s personal space. He rolls up Draco’s nice list and presses it into Draco’s hand, his (admittedly nice) fingers lingering overlong over Draco’s. Draco swallows. He can’t remember the last time he’s been this close to someone fit—even if they are annoying.

Potter’s eyes flick over his face, settling on his lips, before meeting his eyes again. “What about after your rounds on Christmas Eve, you stop back here, and I’ll make curry if you bring the ginger nuts. We can watch  _ Love, Actually _ . It’s a wretched Muggle film, but I watch it every year, anyway.”

Draco’s eyes widen. “Potter—are you— _ asking me out? _ ”

Potter bites his lips. “A bit, yeah.”

Draco doesn’t quite know what to say. Somehow he lands on, “That, er, would reduce my workload considerably.”

Potter grins. “So, it’s a date?”

Draco can’t believe he’s doing this. “It’s a date.”

“Well, that’s me sorted,” Potter says, grinning wider.

And Draco, hand movements jerky, checks Potter’s name off his nice list. “I thank you for your assistance. You’ve been most helpful tonight.”

Potter rolls his eyes. “Just say Happy Christmas, you twat.”

Draco allows himself a small smile. This checks off his own Christmas wish, too (company other than his parents). It doesn’t hurt that the company is attractive at the same time. Maybe he could get used to this Father Christmas thing. “Happy Christmas, Potter.”


End file.
